“Can we do it?” That is the question.
“We must try.” That is the answer.
The roller is fastened carefully behind a back wheel, and “Hip!” away we go, the horses tearing, tottering, scraping, almost falling.
And now we are up, and pause to look thankfully, fearfully back while the horses stand panting, the sweat running in streamlets over their hoofs.
The short banks are more easily rushed. It is a long steep hill that puts us in danger.
There is hardly probably a worse hill or a more dangerous hollow than that just past the castle gate of Alnwick.
It needed a stout heart to try the descent. Easy indeed that descent would have been had a horse fallen, for neither the brake, which I now had sole charge of, nor the skid, could have prevented the great van from launching downwards.
But the ascent was still more fraught with danger. It was like climbing a roof top. Could the horses do it this time?
Impossible. They stagger half way up, they stagger and claw the awful hill, and stop.
No, not stop, for see, the caravan has taken charge and is moving backwards, dragging the horses down.